


A Tale of Two Cities

by profangirlintoomanyfandoms



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:27:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27537547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profangirlintoomanyfandoms/pseuds/profangirlintoomanyfandoms
Summary: Right place, wrong time. Right time, wrong place. Maybe third time's the charm.
Relationships: Beth Harmon/Benny Watts
Comments: 26
Kudos: 512





	A Tale of Two Cities

**Author's Note:**

> “I desire the things which will destroy me in the end.” – Sylvia Plath

_Moscow, December 1968_

Her first opponent is named Mikhail. He’s 78, he comes to the park every few days to play (has done ever since he retired), and he’s read her piece in _Life_ – the first one ever, the piece on her first ever tournament where she beat Harry Beltik. “It was very good,” he tells her as he moves his knight. His fingers are old and pale and veined. “The play was excellent; I learned a lot.”

She answers with a king-pawn. “Thank you.” She speaks haltingly. Her Russian is functional at best. “But there were mistakes.”

“Oh?” Rook.

She hesitates before she answers, in English. “I should have castled.” And even as she’s saying it, she can hear him, hear that barely concealed smirk in his voice, can practically _see_ the slight recline to his posture – he always looked like he was leaning against something even when he was standing perfectly upright.

 _You should have castled._ The sentence reeks of New York air mattresses and _do you still like my hair_ and unanswered Kentucky houselines.

 _You should have castled._ She wonders what else he was – is right about.

Beth blinks. Then she remembers: the game. She makes her move.

“Castled? You mean, the rook – at the end…? Ah yes. I see. But you still won.” Bishop.

She shakes her head. “I made mistakes.” Rook. Check.

He’s all too happy to concede defeat. She finds herself smiling in return. He reminds her of Luchenko. They shake hands, and she agrees to come by if she ever finds herself in Moscow again. His granddaughter’s name is Alexandra. She’s a fan. She writes her an autograph.

Her second opponent is a newcomer to the chess scene. He’s joining his first ever chess tournament next month. He’s 47, and it just might be the most exciting thing that’s happened to him.

He’s a plumber, he explains as he sets up the board. He’s always liked chess, always played it, but only seriously considered playing in competitions recently, after seeing her wins. He’s been saving up.

“No more drinking and no more cigarettes,” he laughs. Beth nods. She can sympathise.

“So. Any advice for me?”

She’s taken aback. Namely because she is the last person anyone ought to be asking for advice.

_You’ll swear off everything for a while, then you’ll come crashing back and fuck if you’re ever going to go off it. More like you’re going to keep going and coming and end up dead in 5 years._

She feels that’s not the support he’s looking for.

Beth’s just about to apologise for not having any when she suddenly remembers a boy, perched on the edge of his seat, frowning at the board in front of him. He was wearing a shirt and trousers, she remembered, and his hair was slicked back with too much gel. He barely came up to her shoulders. Christ, he was so _young_.

She’s speaking before she realises it. “There is life outside of the competition.”

He looks at her. There’s a curiosity in his gaze that she’s decidedly uncomfortable with.

He nods. He understands.

She wishes him good luck with the competition, promises to come by and watch if she’s in Moscow then. She also tells him to play the Sicilian – he’s good at that – and to build a better endgame play.

The plumber nods again, gives her his card. It informs her that Alexei Gorchakov, junior manager at Lomonosovsky Plumbing Incorporated, can be contacted at the following address and telephone number.

“If you ever find yourself in need of the plumbing or chess-playing services,” he smiles, and makes way for another player.

Her third and final opponent is a former professional chess player. His name is Dmitri Dyachenko. He’s won a couple of national tournaments, and the government had been willing to pay a lot for him to play professionally at the global level but he’d refused. He’s retired now, at the ripe old age of 34. He plays chess when he’s bored, teaches chess when he’s slightly less bored, and worries about the rent when he’s drunk.

Beth doesn’t say anything, just chooses from his two closed fists. She gets Black.

They play for a while in silence, listening to the chatter and murmur of other players.

“I followed your matches,” he says suddenly. His voice slices through the soft Russian air. Queen. “Congratulations. The wins were well-deserved.”

“Thank you.” Knight.

“It’s been a long time,” he continues, “since I’ve seen someone play like that.” Knight.

She has no answer to that. Just – Bishop.

He smiles at the board. “I can see that you love chess. And you love winning.” King-pawn.

Queen.

He is silent for a moment before – “Be careful, girl. Do not fall in love with something that will not love you back.”

Beth has no answer, and she doesn’t think he is expecting one.

The game drags on, and by the time they end, some have crowded around them to spectate. He offers a draw and she surprises all of them, including herself, by accepting.

“Good game,” she says, shaking his hand.

“Best I have played.” Dmitri dips his head politely.

The crowd claps, ooh-ing and aah-ing, before gradually dispersing back to their tables. They’re silent for a while.

He lights a cigarette, doesn’t ask her beforehand if she minds. Somehow that makes her like him more.

Beth feels the need to justify herself, to say something.

“You’re right. I love chess. But I’m not _in love_ with chess. I can – I mean, there are people I can – I’m just –,” she waves a hand over the board, trying and failing to find the words. “I just – love chess,” she finishes hopelessly.

He’s quiet for a moment. The end of his cigarette lights up red before being engulfed by a grey cloud of smoke.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “It’s a bit like that.”

She leaves after a few more rounds with a few other players. As she makes her way out of the park, she thinks the only person she’s likely to ever seek out again would be Dmitri Dyachenko.

* * *

_New York, January 1969_

The heating’s down. More specifically, the first-floor apartment’s heating is down, so Benny can’t leech off of theirs anymore, which means his basement apartment is now a fucking igloo. Hilton and Arthur swing by at one point – they’ve all but claimed his apartment as their own now, fucking arseholes – and they gift him a heater, which works by the barest definition but stinks of engine oil and Benny’s pretty sure they just picked it up from a junkyard somewhere so the likelihood of it exploding in his face is fairly high.

He thanks them anyway.

“Yup,” Arthur says, smacking the heater’s side and looking ludicrously proud of himself. “This will see you through the winter.”

It works for a solid five rounds of chess before it sputters, lets out an unholy screech, then dies.

Hilton blames the chilly basement air – “messes with the engines and cranks and stuff. But it’s a damn good heater, trust me.”

Benny knows better than to argue.

He sends them on their way, reassuring them that yes, he’ll get his heating fixed, not to worry, he won’t die of hypothermia, and so on.

And he hates, he fucking _hates_ how, sitting there alone in the cold of the apartment, doing absolutely _nothing_ , that he still manages to find a way to link this back to _her_.

_It would be cold in Russia. She’s still in Russia, right? Or Kentucky. Well, it would probably be cold there too. Is she alright? Is she cold?_

He can’t really remember her now, the _entirety_ of her. Just bits: how red her hair got when the sun hit it just right, the swell of her voice when she laughed, the way she sprawled over his couch when she thought he wasn’t looking, when she thought he was just planning his chess moves.

It terrifies him, the thought of forgetting her.

Then he reminds himself it shouldn’t terrify him. If anything, he should be relieved, because: 1) she isn’t fucking interested, 2) she made it clear that she wasn’t fucking interested, several times in fact, and 3) even if she ever was interested, he blew his shot ages ago, blew it _multiple times_ , and besides, 4) why the hell is he worrying about some fantasy version of Elizabeth Harmon, living it up in Russia or dancing her way across France, when he’s freezing his balls off in a New York basement?

Benny knows the answer to this. Benny also knows he will never admit it to himself.

 _It’s not logical_ , he’d said once, in the midst of a drunken stupor on Christmas Night.

He never got drunk.

He never fell in love either.

Harry – who isn’t his fucking friend, but still seems to have taken that one-off adjournment invite to drive the fucking _12 hours_ from Kentucky and “drop by for the holidays” – had nodded pensively, had just watched as he knocked back another shot of whiskey. Matt-or-Mike (he had a hard time telling them apart) had dropped the bottle off sometime earlier. Said he’d looked like he needed it, and merry Christmas you bastard.

And Benny was well and truly wasted when Harry – still sober – imparted this little nugget of wisdom: “Life isn’t a game of chess, Benny.”

And fuck if Benny knows what to make of _that_. Harry leaves a bit after that. Says he’s got to head back. Exams are coming up, and he’s got to study. He wants to become an engineer, become associate manager, then settle down. It sounds like a death wish.

Benny congratulates him, says _that sounds real nice, good luck with everything Harry,_ says goodbye, and happy Christmas, and drinks a bit more.

Well it’s January now, and he’s regrettably sober now, but he kind of wishes he was drunk.

 _Jesus, Harmon_ , he laughs. _What have you done to me? Managed to drive me to drink._

He can almost hear her now. _By the looks of it, you drove yourself to drink. Look who’s calling the kettle black now. And you still can’t fucking hold your drink._

She’d be smirking, he thinks. She always does, whenever it comes to him. The left corner of her red-lipsticked mouth would tilt up, her eyebrow would raise, and she’d suppress a tiny snort just before it bubbled up and became a full-blown laugh.

He also hates that he can still remember. Because it’s fucking January, it’s been _weeks_ – no, _months_ – since he’s seen her properly, so he shouldn’t still see her from the corner of his eye roaming around his apartment. He shouldn’t be making breakfast first thing in the morning because she always needs food before training. He shouldn’t be still limiting his showers to 10 minutes because the hot water would run out for her if he takes any longer. And he definitely shouldn’t be keeping the air mattress out, as if anyone is still going to use it.

Benny huffs, gets his board out. He can’t fucking _think_ about this. But he _can_ think about chess. Chess is what he knows. Chess is what he’s good at. Chess is all he’s good at.

And maybe that’s why he doesn’t hear the phone ring at first. He’s too focused on finding a way to break the Maróczy Bind in three moves. The pieces are flitting by on the ceiling, on the board, and he’s not sure if the ring is another one of his hallucinations.

He only picks up after the phone rings a third time. A voice comes through immediately. “I just want to start off by letting you know this is costing me a fortune.”

His heart almost stops in his tracks. And for that second, the entire world zeroed in on the receiver, on the tinny voice coming through.

“Beth?” It’s barely a whisper.

He can almost hear the smile in her voice. “Yeah.”

Everything and nothing races through his mind at the same time. He’s got a million questions to ask. He’s got nothing to ask.

She breaks the silence first. “I never said thank you. For Moscow. The adjournment.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Of course I have to.” She takes a deep breath. “So thank you, Benny. It – It meant…a lot.”

“Yeah,” Benny tries to keep his voice calm, neutral. “Needed an American win. Figured I’d serve my country.”

And – Benny might be hallucinating, this might just be the result of far too much coffee and far too little sleep – but then he swears he hears her _laugh_. A full-on, honest-to-God _laugh_ , echoing from continents away. He’s a bit too proud to admit one tiny little laugh makes his brain short-circuit.

Her voice crackles over the phone: “They’ll give you a medal, I’m sure.”

Then she’s quiet, and Benny really hopes it isn’t up to him to initiate conversation, because his brain isn’t being forthcoming with any conversational topics at the moment.

Then – “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“I called to let you know. I just - I’m flying back tonight. I’ll be back by…well, tonight, your time.”

_She’s coming back. She’s not coming back here, you idiot; she’s going back to Kentucky. She said, “your time”. She meant “US time”. Still, she’s in the States. She’s 12 hours away, and she’s not interested. She’s still just a drive away. She’s a disinterested drive away._

He just about manages to shut his brain down enough to choke out, “Oh. Okay,” and, “What time do you get in?” – Which is possibly the most boring and irrelevant question he could ask in this situation, but it’s far better than _are you coming to New York_ or _are you leaving again_.

“Uh, 11 pm, I think. Yeah, 11 pm.”

A pause.

“So…you still have that air mattress?”

There’s silence then. The overhead glow from the ceiling light suddenly seems far too bright, far too yellow on the concrete floor. Benny is now 100% sure he’s gone, he’s touched in the head. Maybe his parents were right; maybe being a professional chess player isn’t a great career option because you’d go mad at your own genius before you reach 30.

Her voice shocks him back into reality. “Benny?” She sounds confused. “You still there?”

“Um. Yeah. The mattress is still – yeah.”

And he can’t get his mouth to work, can’t seem to think of how to say everything he’s been thinking, can’t seem to put everything he really means into _I miss you_ and _I’ve missed you_ , can’t say those cursed three words that everyone says these days.

It’s okay though. He thinks she understands.

She lets out another soft laugh, and he almost shatters right then and there. “Okay. You going to blow it up for me?”

“In your dreams, Harmon.”

“Had to try.” A pause. “You’re picking me up from the airport, at least.”

“Yeah, sure. Oh and by the way, you owe me huge for all the parking tickets I got.”

“Play you for it.” And she’s _definitely_ smiling now, he can fucking _hear_ it in the lilt of her voice.

He’s smiling too. He’s grinning like a demented Cheshire cat. He can’t find it in himself to care.

“Speed chess. Best out of ten.”

“Done. Oh, and Benny?”

“Yeah?”

“I still like your hair. I’ve always liked your hair.” She hangs up before he can reply.

He blows three stop signs on his way to the airport that night.

**Author's Note:**

> It has come to my attention that there is a severe lack of The Queen's Gambit fanfiction, so here is my quick one-shot for Beth/Benny. Hope you all enjoyed it! As always, constructive criticism is always welcome.


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